


Invisible Threads

by cuttooth



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (sort of), And The Absolute Importance Of Kissing, Badass Boyfriends Working Together, Epistolary, M/M, Mild Web!Martin, Softness, Teamwork, The Absolute Importance Of Choice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-16 18:51:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19324030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth
Summary: Martin considers for a long, long moment. How is he? Fine, he thinks, except that he woke up this morning with webs obscuring every window in his flat. Except that he knows he’s lying to Jon by not telling him about this, and the knowledge that it would only worry him doesn’t assuage the guilt. Except his hindbrain is itching with secrets that don’t want attention drawn to them,scritch scritch scritch.I’m good,he texts back eventually.I miss you, though. When are you coming back?*It's difficult, when Jon's away. But every word from him helps.





	Invisible Threads

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RavenXavier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenXavier/gifts).



> For one of my favorite people, [RavenXavier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenXavier/pseuds/RavenXavier) /[@somuchbetterthanthat](https://somuchbetterthanthat.tumblr.com/), who requested "Jon and Martin /kissing/, SOFTLY, without any sad that isn't /utterly resolved/ at the end". I'm sorry this took so long, and I hope it fits the criteria.

_"Mit unsichtbaren Fäden wird man am festesten gebunden"_  
_"Invisible threads are the strongest ties”_  
\- Friedrich Nietzsche, "Nachgelassene Fragmente" vol 10

 

The envelope is battered and travel stained, the postmark unfamiliar. The Institute address is written on it in Jon’s sharp, demanding hand, _c/o Martin Blackwood._ Martin slits it open along the seal and shakes its contents out onto the desk.

Despite the envelope’s thin padding (really, he could have sprung for something better) the cassette looks undamaged. There’s a note as well. Martin unfolds the paper, carefully smoothing out its creases. Jon’s writing here is a jagged slant, as if he’d written hastily on an uneven surface.

 _Martin,_ it says, _I finally tracked down that statement Dekker referenced in 0101712. Apparently Pu Songling did have it, but they entered the case number incorrectly in the cross-reference against their own indexing system. Yes, it appears their record keeping is even worse than ours, if you can believe it. I thought it would be_ ~~_safer_ ~~ _easier if I recorded it rather than sending you the paper copy. I’ll bring it with me for re-filing when I get back._

 _Speaking of which, that might take a little longer than I expected. Basira’s been in contact, and she has something. I’m going to join her in Honduras and_ ~~ _make sure she_~~ _help her investigate. I’m not sure how long. I’ll be in touch when I can, you know how my phone reception is these days._ ~~_Be careful_~~ _Take care._

_Jon_

Martin snorts softly.

“Take care yourself,” he says. He’s not the one running around continents chasing the Extinction. _He’s_ where he’s supposed to be, in the Archives. _Archiving._ He folds the note up again, dismissing the twinge of disappointment he feels. He gets it. They both have work to do.

Martin makes a cup of tea before he sits down to listen to the statement. They’re never a pleasant experience, but Martin listens to each one Jon sends while he’s traveling. It’s a bit sentimental, yes - Martin’s never claimed to be otherwise - but it’s practical as well. The statements keep him abreast of new findings, so he can follow up on any research that needs doing. And they allow him to gauge Jon’s state of mind, whether he sounds tired, or afraid, or frustrated. There isn’t much he can do about it from a distance, but still Martin likes to know.

Wanting to know everything about Jon is an old habit. Martin doesn’t think it’s going anywhere at this point.

He presses play on the tape recorder, and feels a strange mix of contentment and longing as Jon’s voice crackles off the cassette, rich and expository.

“Statement of Amandine Azoulay, regarding her work on a genome editing project at the Gaspar-Joly Research Center, between February and October of 2009.”

*

 _Got the Azoulay statement,_ he texts Jon after he’s listened to it twice. The first time just to hear Jon’s voice, and the second with a pen in hand to capture his thoughts. He’s already considering a couple of other statements that might be worth cross referencing. _I’ll do some research and let you know what I find out._

Martin has no idea when, or even _if_ Jon will see the message. He’s frequently out of power or reception range, and text messages and emails have a tendency to scramble themselves before they ever reach him. Jon has no explanation for it, sighs that it’s probably an avatar thing, and sticks to hand writing most of the time.

It’s fine, though. Martin simply sends the message out into the ether, a flimsy thread of connection, and knows Jon will appreciate it, when he gets it. If he does.

He thinks about it for a few moments, chewing on his lower lip. Then sends a follow up message:

_Miss you. Hope you’re okay._

*

Things are better these days. Much better, if Martin’s honest. They have to deal with Elias again, but at least Peter is gone, the cold fog he drew over the Institute dissipated. There’s a sense of wartime camaraderie in the Archives, the five - six - of them forming ranks against the horrors they face. Standing together, rather than falling apart.

It’s all because of Jon. Because Jonathan Sims is a stubborn arse, who decided that he was going to trust the people around him, and that he wasn’t going to let suspicion or fear tear them apart. Who believed it was possible with such absolute force of will that somewhere along the way, all the rest of them began believing as well. Who point blank refused to give up on Martin, despite all Martin’s best efforts. Not even when Martin gave up on himself.

And there’s the _other_ thing, of course. That's - definitely better. To this day Martin’s heart still flutters when he thinks about the first time Jon kissed him. His solemn, focused expression and the tenderness in his eyes. The gentle way he touched Martin’s cheek, an affirmation. The soft brush of lips and then, with that little anxious furrow between his brows, _was that all right?_

 _All right?_ Martin had to laugh. There had never been anything so all right.

Things still aren’t _good_ , by any sane standards. The Extinction is a cataclysm in waiting, and the reason Jon and Basira are running halfway around the world. Elias has been suspiciously placid since his return, but it feels less like peace than a temporary cessation of hostilities. Fear still lurks outside the Institute, although these days it’s actually possible to go home. Martin doesn’t like to think they might have anything to thank Elias for, but he does like sleeping in his own bed.

There are other things, too, which Martin doesn’t talk about. Doesn’t like to think about. The way he keeps finding spider webs drifting across his desk and hanging in his doorways. A trap, or an invitation. The way he feels like someone’s watching him, or watching over him, and he’s not sure he can tell the difference.

Martin worries, but he hasn’t told anyone. Especially not Jon. Jon’s so busy. He has so many things on his mind. Maybe when Jon comes back, Martin will tell him then. For now, he brushes the webs away and doesn’t look too deep into the shadows, and tries to ignore the tickling in his thoughts, like dozens of tiny legs scrabbling at the inside of his skull, _scritch scritch scritch._

For now, it seems to be working.

*

The next cassette is postmarked from Honduras. This time, the accompanying message is on the back of a postcard, showing a picturesque waterfront view. _Greetings from La Ceiba!_ it declares. Jon’s handwriting is barely legible, cramped into the small space on the back.   

 _Martin,_ _sorry I haven’t called,_ _spent_  
_4 days in rainforest for statement._  
_No reception. Think this one’s important._  
_Please transcribe when you can._  
_Thanks._  
_Sorry._  
_Jon._

(In fact Jon _has_ called since then. Only briefly, on a scratchy phone line, to let him know that they were headed for Guadeloupe on another lead. That they’d almost certainly be home next week, but who could really tell for sure? That it was good to hear Martin’s voice.

“I hoped I’d be home by now,” Jon said, his voice tinny and distant.

 _I hoped you’d be home too,_ Martin didn’t reply. _I miss you so much it hurts._ Didn’t say: _I’m afraid, and there was spider thread in my hair when I woke up this morning._

“We’re holding down the fort here,” he told Jon instead, casting around for something trivial to share. “Melanie’s started trying to teach Helen the filing system, which seems - a bit counterintuitive, for the Spiral? But they seem to be enjoying it.”

“Right. That’s...good? I’ll, uh, I'll try to keep my phone charged, in case anything - comes up. In case you need me.”

“Thanks, Jon,” Martin said. Didn’t say: _I always need you.)_

Now, with the context of this postcard and its anxious apologies, that hurried phone call means so much more. Martin opens his bottom desk drawer, and pulls out the shoebox where he keeps everything Jon sends him while traveling. It’s a bit silly, a bit soppy, and nobody knows about it - except Elias, probably, but there’s nothing to be done about that.

Inside, there are all the notes and scribbled post-its that came attached to the cassette tapes. A couple of postcards, which Martin's fairly sure were chosen from necessity rather than sentiment. A fuzzy pink gonk toy with googly eyes and adhesive feet, which Jon claimed to have found at a petrol station in Estonia. _I remember you said you liked these,_ he'd said in the accompanying note, and Martin’s face had split into a helpless grin. He _had_ once said he’d liked them as a kid, and bemoaned the fact that they didn’t seem to exist anymore. He’d never expected Jon to remember.

He adds the latest postcard to the collection, and reaches for a tape recorder to listen to the statement. He presses play.

“All right..." Jon's voice begins, and he sounds so very tired. Martin's heart aches to offer him some comfort, even from this distance.

"Statement of Sergi Álvarez, regarding his recent experience as a logger in the Olancho rainforest. Statement taken direct from subject, seventh of March, 2019.”

*

Elias rarely graces the Archives with his presence when Jon’s away. Martin scowls at the sight of him swanning in, hands tucked into the pockets of his perfectly pressed trousers, the sleeves of his crisp shirt rolled up, not a hair out of place. And to think he was in prison a few months ago.

 _Should have stayed there,_ Martin thinks.

“Hello, Martin,” Elias says, looking as if he knows _exactly_ what’s going through Martin’s head.

“Elias,” he says curtly. Turns back to the file he’s reviewing. Elias comes over and stands right by his desk, utterly unruffled.

“Oh come now, Martin,” he says. “We may not be friends, but there’s no reason to be rude. I am still your boss, if you hadn’t forgotten.”

“How could I? What with the whole _beating heart of the Institute, if I die so do you_ thing? What can I do for you, Elias? Jon’s not here.”

“I’m well aware. Where _is_ Jon, by the way?”

“What makes you think I’d know?”

“Don’t be modest, Martin,” Elias says. You have rather a knack with our Archivist. Even when he’s off the grid, you always seem to be able to reach him. It’s almost uncanny, the... _connection_ , you two have.”

He gives Martin a long, assessing look. Martin stares back stubbornly. He’s not sure what Elias is trying to imply, but he doesn’t like any of the options.

“I don’t keep tabs on him all the time, Elias. He’s busy. And so am I, if you don’t mind?”

“Hmm. Working on a statement, I see. What’s the subject?”

Martin sighs internally. He won’t be rid of Elias until the man achieves whatever inscrutable goal he’s down here for, so Martin might as well go along with it.

“Mind control, according to the person who gave it.”

“Ah, the Web,” says Elias. “A particular interest of yours?”

“Not specifically,” Martin says. _Scritch scritch scritch._ He glares defiantly at Elias, who smiles blandly back.

Elias’ eyes shift away from his, down to Martin’s desk where, when he glances, a tiny brown spider is making its way across the piles of paperwork. Elias’ smile is even wider when he looks back up.

“Spiders,” Elias says. “They’re pests, but they _do_ serve a purpose. In the ecosystem.”

*

“In the follow up notes Mrs. Sanchez claims that the book was purchased by a very aggressive buyer with a lot of money, under a false name. I suspect “The Perdition” may have found its way into Juergen Leitner’s library. I don’t recall the title among his books collected at the Institute, but best to confirm. Martin - you might check when you get a chance, would you?”

Martin always gets a little thrill hearing Jon address him directly on tape. This thread of connection between them, this strange and unique communion, delights him. The knowledge that Jon is thinking of him, while he’s so far away. The thought that someone else might listen to this tape someday and wonder about them, know that they were a team.

Jon would never say anything _inappropriate_ on tape, of course, because he is far too much Jonathan Sims for that. Still, it feels so much oddly more than simple communication.

Martin scribbles down a reminder to check with Sonja later. Files the tape away and adds the latest note to his shoebox. Texts Jon to let him know he’s received this one.

 _Thanks for letting me know,_ the response comes almost immediately. Unusual for Jon, even when messages get through to him, and isn’t it the middle of the night where he is right now?

_Aren’t you in Guadeloupe? Shouldn’t you be asleep?_

_Actually we’re in Indonesia now. I thought I texted you about that?_

_Didn’t get it. Your spooky powers at work again._

_Sorry. I should have called to make sure. How are you?_

Martin considers for a long, long moment. How is he? Fine, he thinks, except that he woke up this morning with webs obscuring every window in his flat. Except that he knows he’s lying to Jon by not telling him about this, and the knowledge that it would only worry him doesn’t assuage the guilt. Except his hindbrain is itching with secrets that don’t want attention drawn to them, _scritch scritch scritch_.

 _I’m good,_ he texts back eventually. _I miss you, though. When are you coming back?_

 _Maybe another week or two,_ Jon replies. _If this lead of Basira’s pans out._

_I should be jealous of all the time you two spend together. :)_

There’s a gap for a couple of minutes, and Martin wonders if he’s pushed too far, brought his loneliness and his need too much into this. His phone eventually chimes with:

_You know I’d much prefer to be spending this time with you. I miss you too._

Martin smiles to himself. The words don’t fill up the hollow gap in his chest, but they help at least a little.

_Maybe next time I’ll come with you._

Another gap, shorter this time, and then:

_I’d like that._

*

He’s definitely being followed. Martin hasn’t been able to catch a glimpse of the person yet, but he can feel it, like an itch between his shoulder blades. It mostly happens when he’s on his way home from the Institute at night. Occasionally on his morning commute, the feeling of too many eyes watching him on the Tube. To be fair, though, he doesn’t go much of anywhere else other than the Institute these days. He's willing to admit he might be wallowing a bit, with Jon away.

He does try to go out for lunch when he can. He gives Jon enough of a hard time about seeing the sun, it would be hypocritical of him not to. He always invites the others, because they're all in this together, and it's important to make the effort. Melanie rarely accepts, busy with appointments and having a social life. (And all right, most of her social life seems to take place in an endless series of corridors, but it still counts.)

Daisy comes with him fairly often, though. She still isn’t too keen on being alone, and they get along better than they used to. That’s not saying a great deal, considering that their previous dynamic was that of a hawk scrutinizing a mouse. Still, Martin finds that he likes her quite a lot these days. She’s funny, and she’s the only other person he knows who watches "Bake Off" as religiously as he does. And it’s nice to have someone to commiserate with, when Basira and Jon are off on their globe trotting investigations.

And, she actually seems to like spending time around him too, which isn't something Martin is terribly accustomed to. Daisy rolls her eyes at him, and tells him he's a sap, and she still turns up at his desk a few times a week around lunchtime. It's - nice. 

They’re sitting outside a pub one day, enjoying a quiet pint with lunch - because it’s a Friday and who’s going to tell them otherwise - when she glances sharply over his shoulder. Her head doesn’t move, but her eyes dart quickly past him, then back to his, gone flinty. She leans in.  

“Don’t look,” she tells him quietly. “We’re being watched.”

Martin doesn’t look, but a chill runs down his spine.

“Who?”

“A woman,” Daisy says. Her eyes are narrowed, more dangerous than Martin’s seen them in a long time. “She’s sitting across the street outside a café. She doesn’t know I’ve spotted her.”

“You’re sure?” Martin asks, and Daisy gives him a withering look. “Right, right. Sorry. What does she look like?”

Daisy describes her, and Martin feels his stomach drop. It was no less than he expected, but having it confirmed makes it feel real. Immediate.   

“We should finish these and head back to the Institute,” he says. Daisy gives him an appraising glance.

“You all right?” she asks. “You look a bit pale. More than usual.”

Martin considers it. Daisy is watching him steadily, the way she does, no judgment or demand. Daisy would help, he knows. At least, Daisy would listen. He leans forward.

“Daisy - ” he begins. Except then there's that scrabbling in the back of his brain, _don’t talk about it, it’s secret, don’t tell, it's not for them,_ and he leans back again. Looks around at the tables and chairs, the overhanging awning, the pub windows and the cracks in the pavement. So many hiding places for tiny, grasping legs, _scritch scritch scritch_. Daisy is looking at him quizzically.

“Never mind.”

*

His phone starts buzzing one night when he’s more or less asleep. Martin rolls over and blinks at it blearily. The screen is displaying an obscenely long string of characters, some of which aren’t even numbers. He knows what that means. Martin jabs at the answer button, and presses the phone against his ear.

“H’llo,” he manages. There’s a lot of background noise, like Jon is in a crowded place. Out on a street or in a busy bar. Where is he this week? Mumbai, maybe?

“Oh, Martin, sorry. I forgot what time it was. Sorry, I’ll - ”

“‘S fine, I’m up.” Martin clears the sleep from his throat. “I’m up. Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes, absolutely fine. I just - well, I’m waiting for Basira. She’s meeting with a contact of hers, and I just...thought I’d call you, since I had a free minute.”

“Oh, right,” Martin says. “Well, good. I’m glad you did.”

“So am I,” says Jon, his voice warm and a little embarrassed. “I, uh, I’m fairly sure we’ll be home next week?”

“Daisy’ll be pleased.”

“Just Daisy?”

“Oh well, I suppose Elias will be happy,” Martin teases, and is rewarded with the sound of Jon laughing. “Seriously though, are you sure? You thought you were coming home three weeks ago as well.”

“I - yes, I think so. I’m sorry, Martin, I know it must be - frustrating.”

“It’s what we signed up for, isn’t it? The whole saving the world thing?”

“Yes, well, I’m not sure about that. We’ve learned a lot though. I'll have lots to discuss with you when I get back.” His voice goes bright and happy when he says that, in a way that is thoroughly endearing.

“I look forward to it,” Martin tells him. “I - have a lot to discuss with you as well.”

_(tiny scratching legs scrabbling in the back of his thoughts, scritch scritch scritch, it's not for him, it’s secret, for you and us and us.)_

“Great! That's - great. We can compare notes.”

“Oh, that’s what they’re calling it these days, is it?” Martin says slyly, drawing another laugh.

“Honestly, Martin,” Jon scolds, but his tone is warm. Martin grins to himself.

“Sorry, Mister Sims,” he says. “I’ll try to refrain from kissing you silly when you get back.”

“Oh, well - ” Jon sounds flustered. It's terribly sweet. “Things have been okay, though? No - threats?”

“Nothing like that,” Martin tells him. It’s not precisely a lie, he thinks. The webs in his flat, the unseen _someone_ dogging his footsteps, those things don’t quite count as a threat. “Why do you ask?”

“I - I don’t know. I’ve just been feeling a bit uneasy about things. Like there’s something wrong. Stupid, I suppose.”

“It’s not stupid. You’ve just been away for a while, it’s normal to feel a bit anxious.”

“Right. You’re right. If anything was wrong, you’d let me know.”

“Of course.”

_Scritch scritch scritch_

“Well, I’d better let you get back to sleep. Take care, Martin. I’ll see you next week.”

“Next week,” says Martin. “I’ll hold you to that.”

He hangs up, and knows this has to end. Jon's coming home.

*

It’s late when he leaves the Institute. The streets are dark and quiet, or at least as quiet as they get in London. Only a handful of passersby rushing past on their way home, a few laughing, rowdy groups in the throes of a night out. Martin ignores them. He's avoided the shadows before, but now he keeps his eyes on them, watching for movement.

He knows he’s being watched. He always knows he’s being watched these days. _Scritch scritch scritch_ in the back of his head. He's had enough.

He ducks down an alleyway, unlit and narrow. Gets halfway down and then stops, turns back towards the alley entrance. Nothing is moving there, but he feels -

He _feels -_

“Stop hiding,” he calls into the dark. “I know you're there, so you might as well just come out and tell me what you want.”

Nothing moves, for a long moment. Until something does.

She is a dim shape in the darkness, thin and disjointed, the pale mass of thread almost glowing where it holds her skull together. Annabelle Cane moves the way nobody should be able to, as if her limbs are mere props under her command, jolting mechanically from position to position. She comes closer, until no more than ten feet separate them, and then she stops.

“Hello,” she says, and he recognizes her voice, the whisper infiltrating his brain these weeks and months. Martin’s hands ball into fists at his sides.

“What. Do you _want?”_

“Only you,” she tells him. “Only what you’ve always been meant for. You’re ours, you know that. Our speck at the center of the Eye.”

Martin doesn’t bother with _I’m not,_ or _you’re lying,_ because he knows that it’s true. It feels true, down to the core of him, and he is shaking with the _rightness_ of it.

_Scritch scritch scritch_

“Why now?”

“Because now is when we need you,” says Annabelle. Martin shakes his head.

“I won’t.”

“You will,” Annabelle tells him, quite gently. The spider legs _scritch scritch scritch_ in the back of his skull, and Martin feels it, the urge to obey, to not question, to believe that what they want him to do is the only choice. Except -

_Except -_

Except he realizes now, with a sudden flash of understanding, that it  _is_ a choice. That the Web wants it to seem like it isn't, but it _is_ , and it is his choice to make.

He might belong to the Web by nature, but he’s spent nearly half his life under the Beholding, learning to see. And he _sees_ them now, the threads of Annabelle’s influence He _knows_ them, and something cunning and many-legged in him understands how to twist them, how to pull them tighter and tighter, until they - 

\- snap, and recoil, dangling loose. Powerless.

Annabelle flinches.

“I _won’t,”_ he tells her.

Martin has a choice, and he chooses the Institute. Not because he belongs to the Eye, but because Jon does.

And Martin belongs wherever Jon is.

*

The next day he wakes up with no webs in his flat. No eyes following him on his way to work. No _scritch scritch scritch_ in the back of his head. It's a relief.

Martin's not foolish enough to believe this is the end of it, but these days, any respite is a victory.

It's only a few days until Jon's back, and Martin has made his choice. He's going to live with it, wherever it takes him.

*

Martin takes a deep, steadying breath. Spreads out the pages of the statement on the desk, and presses record.  

“Right. Martin Blackwood, Archival Assistant, recording statement 0021504. Statement of - Angus Wainwright, regarding a catering job at Moorland House. _It’s not the weirdest request I’ve ever had, silver service catering for a party with no attendees. I mean, it’s pretty weird, but once you get used to catering fetish parties and some of the odder religious affairs, you learn to take these things in stride. The request came in by email, but I insist on meeting the clients in person for full service events. The woman I met with gave her name as Marianne Lukas. She was very quiet and pale, and it barely felt like -_ oh, hang on.”

Martin picks up his mobile, which is warbling shrilly, and answers it.

“Hello?”

“Martin,” says Jon, “It’s me. I’m sorry, but something’s come up - I’m not going to be home tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Martin says, “Right.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“No, it’s okay,” Martin tells him, trying to ignore the yawning pit opening in his stomach. “What happened? Is everything all right?”

“It’s fine,” says Jon, “But I’ve just spotted the most gorgeous man sitting right in front of me, and I'm afraid I won’t be able to drag myself away in time.”

Martin looks up and sees Jon, standing ten feet from the office door, wearing a small, mischievous smirk. His heart leaps and he follows it to his feet, dropping his phone and coming around the desk. They meet in the doorway, and Martin just looks at Jon for a long moment, drinking in the sight of him. He looks awfully tired, and so very happy. 

“You absolute git,” he says, but it comes out as a breathless laugh. Jon looks terribly pleased with himself.

“Hi, Martin,” he says.

“Hi,” says Martin, and leans in to kiss him.

Jon's lips are chapped, he notices, because Jon bites at them when he’s stressed. They are also gentle and tremulous and perfect against his own. Jon kisses him like they’ve been apart for a year, like Martin is some delicate and beautiful thing he’s just discovered, and Martin sinks into it with abandon. When they finally break apart, Jon’s hands are grasping at the back of his neck, and Martin’s are cradling the small of Jon’s back, and they put scarcely enough space between them to breathe.

“I’m glad you’re back,” Martin says, and tries to put everything he feels into those words.

“Me too,” says Jon. His eyes are soft and red rimmed, and his mouth is kiss-bruised and trembling just a little. He looks like someone who's spent a long, long time away from home. Someone who's desperately happy to be where he is. 

Martin’s heart feels so full it might burst. Jon is here, Jon is with him, and so Martin is where he belongs. Forget nature and nurture and all the rest, forget the fears and their powers.

Wherever Jonathan Sims is, that's where Martin Blackwood will make his home.

He kisses Jon one more time, just because he can, and tightens his arms around Jon’s waist.

“We should talk,” he says, “There’s - a _lot_ that I need to tell you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr [@cuttoothed](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/cuttoothed). Comments are always appreciated!


End file.
